


The Reminiscing of Sherlock Holmes

by OrmondSacker



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrmondSacker/pseuds/OrmondSacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns from the dead all is not as it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Empty House.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherwings/gifts).



> Originally written for the sherlock.boardhost.com Secret Santa Challenge 2013
> 
>  **A/N:** _Dear Sherwings, you asked for humour, unconditional love and happy ending. While I can honestly say that the two latter have been fulfilled to the fullest extent anyone can, I am afraid it is fairly light on the humorous side. Unless you count Sherlock's perpetual snarkiness and the canon headlines for the five parts which I, at least, had a riot finding. It is partially your own fault for bringing up Imagine Dragon's “It's Time”, when I listened to the song I got post-return feelings and I cannot imagine that time being particularly funny to either of our two heroes. So while that song doesn't directly appear in the story, it is inspired by it._  
>  _Whatever else, I hope you enjoy the story. And I think it once and for all puts the last nail in the coffin of my hope of ever writing something short._

The taxi is warm, almost unbearably so after the chill spring air outside, and the seat’s uncomfortable. I wish I could blame John's tension on one of those factors, but he has been that way ever since my... resurrection. My year of absence and my method of... disappearance have left our relationship... strained. 

He shifts nervously for the fifth time. 

“Sherlock, listen...” 

Knowing what will come, I decide to make the whole thing briefer and easier. Easier on John, at least. “Let me spare you the agony of finding the right words. You have a date with Mary tonight and therefore wish to forgo our usual celebratory dinner after a closed case, but you are unsure how to broach the subject. You are unduly worried about hurting my feelings.” 

“Yeah. That about sums it up.” He sounds relieved. It takes all of my considerable self-control to not snap or flinch. Instead I tap the partition, signaling the driver to stop. 

“Sherlock you don't-” 

“Baker Street is only three streets away, I can walk from here.” John appears about to protest. “Please, I insist. No reason for you to arrive at Mary's freezing.” And I would rather not see the two of you together. 

He grabs my coat sleeve and I can feel his warm, strong fingers through the cloth. 

“Sherlock. I want you to know...” His voice trails off. 

“I do.” _I know that I hurt you. I know that I betrayed your trust. I know that Mary makes you happy, that she makes you smile the way you once smiled at me. The way I wish you still smiled at me. I never knew how much I wanted your smiles until I was without, but they are no longer mine. For I also know this, it is time for me to bow out._ So I put on my best smile as I say, “Good night John.” 

He holds on to my sleeve for a moment longer, then he lets go and settles back in his seat. I step back and close the door and the cab slowly drives away. I remain where I am until it turns a corner before I turn and walk towards the empty rooms on Baker Street.


	2. A Study in White

The July sun is shining brightly, warming all of us waiting outside the church for the bride to arrive, so I know it's not cold making John unable to stand still. He stands next to me looking stunning in the three piece suit Mary finally convinced him to go for. 

“What?” he asks. 

I look at him. 

“You keep staring at me. Have I dropped something on my shirt?” 

“No. Merely admiring your future wife's good taste.” 

“You mean, your good taste. Don't think I don't know that you were the one who convinced Mary to choose _this_ suit.” 

I am not sure I succeed in not blushing, I had not intended for him to know, but I did want him to look his best. “Well she didn't take much convincing. As I said, she has good taste.” I look away down the street, pretending to scout for the limousine Mary will arrive in, but I feel John's gaze linger on my face. 

“What?” Now I'm the one to ask. 

“Do you have the rings?” 

“Have I ever forgotten anything important?” _As if I would do anything to spoil your day?_

He gives me a long suffering look. “Molly's birthday. Greg's promotion party. That you had used the kettle to grow mold in. Do I need to continue?” 

“As I said, nothing important.” 

“My point exactly. You don't rate importance the way the rest of us do, and God knows where wedding rings rank on your scale, so. Do you have them?” 

I put a hand in my pocket and wordlessly produce the box he gave me a few days ago. 

He looks a little abashed. “Right. Thanks. Just...nervous.” He glances at his watch. “She should be here by now.” 

I spot the white limo down the street. “I do believe that is her, John. Now let us get you inside. Bad luck for you to see the bride before the ceremony after all.” 

“Didn't know you were superstitious,” he grins. 

“Well, I see no reason to take chances.” 

Despite having a whole manor and its grounds at their disposal, John and Mary have thankfully forgone the usual staid wedding dinner set-up and instead opted for a summer garden party-style approach. It allows me to escape socialising and remain at the edge of the crowd. 

My eyes scan the crowd, consisting of the usual mishmash of friends and family of both bride and groom. Mary's mother is chatting to Mycroft – _now that would be entertaining to hear, if the mother is anything like her daughter_ – Lestrade is laughing with John and Mrs. Hudson is admiring Mary's dress – _a beautiful creation of white lace and satin that makes her look nothing short of stunning. But when she looks at John, she looks radiant. And John looks so happy whenever_ he _looks at_ her _._

I look on as John puts his arm around his bride and whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh. John grins happily. 

I drift towards the house, intent on finding an unoccupied toilet, hoping to get a few moments to myself. When I do, the place is blessedly silent and dark compared to the garden and I rest my head against the wall for a second, trying to compose myself. 

The door, which I of course forgot to lock, flies open. “Oh. Uhm,” Molly stutters. “I didn't realise it was...” She looks at me closely. “Are you alright?” 

“Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?” 

“Well... John.” 

“What about him?” 

“Did you ever tell him? You should have, when you had the chance.” 

“Tell him what?” 

She looks at me sadly. “You know, if you ever want to talk I know what it feels like. Not being loved back the way you want to be.” 

My gut twists at her words. _I do_ not _wish to discuss this. Molly is far too perceptive sometimes._ “Miss Hooper, you are making no sense. My feelings for John are not romantic.” Before she has a chance to comment I continue. “But since romantic relationships are your concern I suggest you speak to Inspector Lestrade as soon as possible, he can't seem to work up the courage to approach you and the yearning is getting tiresome.” I brush past her and down the hall, heading for the garden door. 

Mary and John meet me halfway down the terrace stairs. 

“There you are,” Mary says, smiling. John is smiling too, more relaxed and open than I've seen him in months. “We wanted to see you before we drove off.” She lets go of John's arm and takes one of my hands. “We just wanted to say thank you. For letting us use your house.” 

“Well, in that case it's my brother you should be thanking. As oldest son he inherited. Thank God.” 

John raises an eyebrow. “And you had nothing to do with us borrowing it?” 

“Well, Mycroft was bound to meddle in your wedding, it's his nature to meddle. I just ensured that his meddling was positive.” 

“Well, in that case perhaps you would pass our thanks on,” Mary says. 

“Avoiding contact with Mycroft when possible. Another commendation to your taste, Mrs. Watson.” 

John gets a peculiar look on his face at my words. _Perhaps he thinks I am mocking? Well I am, but only Mycroft._

Mary stands up on her tiptoes and places a kiss on my cheek, much to my surprise. “Thank you Sherlock,” she says. “If not for the house then for being such a good friend, to me and John both.” I know my face mirrors the puzzlement on John's – _what is she talking about?_ – but we are interrupted by Lestrade's shout from down the garden path. 

“Oi! Your car is waiting.” _As if the limo would drive to the airport without them._ But his interruption is timely, sparing us all more awkward sentimental gibberish. 

When Mary throws her bouquet it is Lestrade who catches it. He blushes furiously when Molly smiles at him. 

I, for one, head back to the garden and the drinks table, that way I won't have to see John's and Mary's happy smiles as they get into the car heading for their honeymoon. Even I can only keep my mask up for so long.


	3. The Resident Patient

My hand rests on the knocker for a second as I steel myself. I let it fall twice, determinedly. It is Mary who answers the door. _Of course it is, she texted me after all. Why did she, she never has before?_

My gaze flickers over her: _Thin, drawn, looks tired, scarf wrapped around her head (its form suggesting baldness beneath), think woolly shawl wrapped around her shoulders despite the heat of the house. Cancer worse than John's words suggested. Why? Trying to shield her? Me?_

Mary draws me away from my line of thought. “Sherlock, thank you for coming.” She's smiling, as radiant as ever. “Come on through.” 

She leads me through the ground floor of the house and into the kitchen. The taste in decoration is more hers than John's – _cream wall paper, white ceilings, small decorative figures and vases with flowers_ – but then John's idea of decorating means stacking things in piles rather just letting them fall where they drop. 

She places me in one of the tall kitchen chairs and starts making coffee. Her movements are slow, almost laboured, but with an underlying nervousness. _Trying to pick up her courage for something?_

She pours a cup for both of us, then sits wearily down opposite me. 

A sad smile spreads on her face. “When I texted you I had it all planned out, what I was going to tell you, but now I hardly know where to start.” 

I see no reason to beat about the bush – _but then I never do_. “You're dying.” To her credit, she doesn't even flinch. “Why didn't John tell me?” 

“He hasn't accepted it yet. Oh, he knows _logically_ that there's nothing more to be done, but in his heart he's still denying it. That's what I asked you here to talk about.” 

“If you are asking me to help him to accept the inevitable I'm afraid I'm not a very good therapist.” 

“Maybe, but I think you'll be the only person who can help him.” She sips her coffee. “You see, I think the reason John can't accept that I'm dying is that he's lost too much over the last several years. Men and women under his care in Afghanistan, first as a doctor then as a commanding officer. Then he lost his place in the army – not through choice, it was ripped away from him – and _then_ , when he had finally got his life sorted again – he lost you.” 

I wince involuntarily. _Doesn't she think that I'd have done it differently if I'd had any choice in the matter? That I_ enjoyed _what I put John through?_

“It wasn't meant as a criticism,” she answers my unvoiced objections. “But it _is_ a fact. And losing you broke John.” 

“And now he's losing you.” 

She looks down into her cup. “Yes. And I'm scared of what is going to happen to him when I'm gone. How he'll respond.” 

An irrational anger seizes me. “And you want _me_ to pick up the pieces?” _How can I? All I ever seem to do is hurt him_. My words are meant as an attack but Mary meets the challenge levelly. 

“Do you know why I've never complained about John running off with you so often?” 

_No, but I've often wondered. What wife would do that? Surely she would demand more of her husband’s time and attention._

“He cares for you, as deeply and abidingly as he loves me. I knew from the start that if I wanted John Watson, I would have to share him with you. That if I asked him to choose it wouldn't matter if I were the one who won, that the one he chose was me, I would still lose. Because having to choose between us would break his heart beyond repair.” She grins mischievously. “I was actually grateful when you came back. A living man has faults, but it's hard to compete with a ghost.” 

I somehow doubted being dead had made John forget all my faults, but if I don't gainsay her sopping she'll come to the point all the quicker. 

She turns serious again. “If you care half as much for him as he does for you, be there for him Sherlock. He'll need someone, and I'd prefer if that someone was you.” 

I cannot help staring at her, trying vainly to see behind the sad eyes and soft smile. 

“I don't understand.” 

She puts one bony hand over mine. “All I ever wanted was for John to be happy.” 

_I think I begin to see._ “Likewise.” 

“Well then.” 

“While I am not very skilled in comforting others... I promise to do my best.” 

“That's all I ask.” 

We finish our coffee in silence and she follows me to the door. 

“And thank you Sherlock, for being willing to share him as well. I know it can't always have been easy, at least I know it wasn't always easy for me.” 

_No, it wasn't easy. But it was preferable to having no John at all, or seeing him constantly sad and angry._

She closes the door behind me, and as I walk to the main road to find a cab I regret that I haven't spoken with her more often. Perhaps she and I had more in common than I had thought.


	4. The Blanched Soldier

“ _What_ am I doing here?” 

I look up from my book at John's exclamation. His body is tense and his face shows equal parts irritation and confusion. 

“If you are asking in an existentialist sense I suggest talking to a priest, but if by 'here' you mean 'in the sitting room' it appears that you intended to read today’s paper.” _Well he had been heading for the dining table, there was nothing else on it he could want._

“I mean here. In this flat.” 

_Where is he heading with this?_ “You live here.” 

“Yes, I know. But why Sherlock? Why did you ask me back?” 

“After you sold the house you needed a place to live, since you love London it seemed like a good idea.” 

“That doesn't answer why you _asked_ me back. You don't do altruistic.” 

I look down at the book now lying in my lap. _“Take care of him”._ I hear Mary's words drift back to me and I consider telling him that, but my own words surprise me. 

“I _wanted_ you back.” 

“I was never gone, Sherlock.” He sounds so puzzled. 

“Yes. You were.” My voice is so soft I wonder if he heard me. 

He did. 

“Well I wasn't the first to leave was I!” John's voice is harsh, grating on the painful place in my heart. 

I hear him turning to leave. 

“No. You weren't.” My voice is no louder than before, but still John hears my words and stop. 

The silence stretches on, getting thinner and thinner and threatening to break under the strain of words not said. John takes another two steps towards the kitchen and it shatters. 

I look up at his retreating back. “I cannot regret my actions.” My voice rings loudly through the hush, surprising both of us. 

John turns back to face me, anger clear on his face. 

“You can't regret what you did?” He is breathing heavily. “You pretended to commit suicide, to be dead for _two years_ and let everyone grieve for you. Right, I forgot, what does the great Sherlock Holmes care for the hearts of ordinary people? Or anyone’s hearts, because to top it off? You. Made. Me. _Watch_.” He voice trembles slightly. “And you're telling me that you don't regret that? You know what, I don't find that hard to believe. Not at all. You're not normal Sherlock.” He snaps around on his heel and storms towards the door. 

I lose my breath at his words and the anger beneath them. He is nearly out the door before I compose myself, but I can't let this pass. To let John leave now, believing what he does, that would destroy everything. 

“You are quite correct, I am not like everyone else. And it therefore follows that my displays of affection deviate from the norm.” 

John turns in the doorway. “ _Affection!_ ” 

I feel a blush creep up onto my cheeks. _I had not intended to use that word._

“You don't even know what the word means,” he bites. 

“Affection – a deep feeling of liking or love for another.” Before John can snap an answer I continue. “When I said that I can't regret what I did, I didn't mean that I do not regret the pain I caused you – had I been able to think of a way to do what I did without hurting you I would have done it – but I cannot regret having kept you alive.” 

“So jumping off that roof was your way of showing you love me?” His voice is sarcastic but I answer him regardless. 

“Yes.” 

He blinks, mouth partially open, and turns slightly pale at the words. “What?” 

Fear seizes me. I had not intended to let him know the true depth of my regard, I can only hope our friendship can still be salvaged. 

“John, I am perfectly aware that you do not share my feelings and I never intended to tell you how I felt had you not displayed such certainty that I do not care about you at all.” My eyes flicker to the book case which suddenly seems endlessly fascinating. “This doesn't have to change anything between us. I am... quite capable of keeping my... affection to myself and will not force unwanted advances on you. So please, do not let my unconsidered words-” 

I break off abruptly when I suddenly feel John's warm hand against my cheek. 

“John?” I look at him, my voice sounding strangely breathless to my ears. _He looks... worried? No not worried, not quite upset either._ I can't figure out that expression, I've never seen it before. 

“When you said 'unwanted advances' what exactly did you mean?” 

“I should think that _quite_ obvious. You have always been _very_ vehement about being 'not gay', and I have observed nothing that indicated the opposite, so clearly a physical relationship with another man isn't what you desire. Personally I am fully capable of feeling affection for another without having to... I believe the term is 'consummate', it.” 

“But you would _like_ to?” 

“It's not important.” His eyes are so blue, looking into them feels like being swallowed by the sky. I try to look away, but John just places a hand on my other cheek as well, trapping my face in his hands. I'm not entirely sure I mind. 

“Not important? What you want isn't important?” 

I close my eyes to avoid being drawn in further by those enchantingly gentle eyes. 

“What is important to me... is that... I can keep your company, your friendship. It is what I cannot bear to lose.” 

John doesn't speak, doesn't move, just stands there, his hands on my face, his thumbs gently caressing my cheekbones. 

“It was never a question of not loving you Sherlock, it was finding a way to live with it.” 

My eyes fly open and frantically fly over his face trying to deduce what he means. _He can't mean what I think he does. Can he?_

“But you're not- You don't-” 

“You're right. I wasn't, I didn't, I'm still not. But Sherlock... when I thought... you had... jumped, my world ended. And when you came back I wasn't sure if I wanted to kiss you, or break your arm for making me believe you dead all that time _and_ for making me watch you jump.” 

I feel my cheeks burn. 

“Yes, about that. I just- I know I shouldn't have, but-” 

“But what?” 

“I wasn't sure I would succeed in the task I had set myself, not sure whether I would live long enough to see you again, not even sure you would forgive me if I returned. So it wasn't that I needed a reliable witness, I wanted to hear your voice one final time. Hear it without anger. I'm sorry.” 

“I wasn't sure I could forgive you either when you came back, not at first at least.” He sighs. “And there was Mary." He looks down and his hands drop to my shoulders. “I know you never really liked her.” 

“On the contrary. I was very glad you found her.” He blinks. “I never wanted to hurt you, I never wanted you to be alone, and I never begrudged you the happiness you found together.” I try to smile but my facial muscles are unwilling to cooperate. John simply stares at me with something like shock on his face, mouth half open. After a moment his constant staring at my face makes me uncomfortable. 

“I am _truly_ sorry she died,” I continue, as much to say something as because it's the truth. John unfortunately, persists in his silent, shocked stare. “John, I wish you'd stop imitating a gold fish. You're entirely the wrong colour.” I try to step back, but his hands tighten on my shoulders, holding me firmly in place. 

“Sorry Sherlock but... in the span of a few minutes you've told me that you love me, that you wish for a physical relationship, but apparently that you also let me go because you cared more about my happiness than your own. It's a bit much to take in.” 

“It- I-” How can I explain this feeling – this strange juxtaposition of cold jealousy and something warm and soft in my chest when he spoke happily of Mary (a sensation as interesting as it had been uncomfortable) – to him in a satisfactory way, when I don't even understand it myself? 

My paltry attempts at explanation are cut short when John raises himself up on his toes and presses his lips briefly against mine. He is smiling softly when he releases my lips again and lets his fingers brush across my cheek. “You were starting to babble.” 

This time I do manage a smile. “Can't have that.” 

Something oddly akin to hope flutters in my chest as I look at him, and the lingering feeling of his lips on mine fills me with confidence as I reevaluate my former conclusions about John and relationships. I raise a hand and run it through his soft, short hair as I bend down and press my lips firmly against his. I let the tip of my tongue dart out, inviting him to open his mouth. Instead he jerks back, letting go of me completely. 

_Treacherous hope. It appears my first conclusion was the correct one. Perhaps this will remind me to follow logic rather than base my actions on unreliable things like emotions._

“Forgive me John, a momentary lapse in judgement. It won't happen again.” I straighten my jacket, and step aside. He grabs hold of my arm. 

“Don't... go. I didn't mean... I didn't expect you to kiss me.” 

“And what _did_ you think I would do after _you_ kissed _me_?” I snap. 

“I didn't think. I just wanted to kiss you, but-” he says, his voice hoarse. 

“You found it wasn't what you wanted. I understand John. Please, pay it no notice.” _Please let it go John, please don't let things be ruined between us._

“It was, is, what I want but-” 

“But what?” My patience and ability to restrain myself is nearly at an end. _Yes I treated you badly, but do I really deserve to be led on and then pushed away John?_

“ _Mary_.” I realise how choked his voice is, as if he is close to tears. “It's only been a couple of months and... I'm not ready. I wanted to be, I wanted to just kiss you and forget everything else, but I can’t.” He looks away, looking ashamed. 

“John,” I whisper. 

“I can't. Not yet.” His voice breaks as he speaks. 

I reach out and put an arm around his shoulder, pulling him towards me. He struggles briefly, then yields with a suddenness that surprises me. He looks pale and drawn, his eyes red with withheld tears, as I turn him to face me. 

“John, you have my word that I will not speak of this again. Though should you wish to bring it up I will listen.” He simply nods. “But do not think that you have to hide your grief from me. I am, and will always be, your friend.” I grip his shoulders firmly. “Let me offer you what comfort a friend can.” 

At my words his self-restraint breaks. He steps close to me and wrap his arms tightly around my chest. As he cries, for the first time since Mary's funeral, I try my best to perform the unfamiliar task of comforting a friend.


	5. The Final Problem

John is still giggling by the time we find a cab – for some reason Battersea appears to be devoid of them tonight – and I can't keep from chuckling myself. Not so much because of Gregson's expression when I told him that the thieving rat he had been looking for was of the furred variety, though it is that comment that is still setting John off, but because of John's delight. He is calmer and more relaxed tonight than he has been since Mary fell ill; almost like his old self. 

Almost, but not quite. There is still sadness in his eyes and far too often a somber look on his face. _I doubt either will ever vanish. He has endured too much pain and grief for that._ But tonight we are, if only briefly, once more John and Sherlock, and that fills my heart with a lightness _I_ haven't felt in years. 

“I still can't believe you said that,” he says as he leans back comfortably in the seat. 

“Well the fur found on the scene should have made the conclusion obvious to anyone except an idiot.” 

“Well, in your opinion that would exclude most of humanity then.” 

“Can I help it if simple observation and logical inference appears to escape the majority of the human race.” 

He shakes his head, leans it back against the headrest and closes his eyes. I study his face surreptitiously out of the corner of my eye. The faint glow from the street lights makes his hair shine like a pale halo and his body is relaxed but his tongue darts out to lick his lips repeatedly – _usually a sign he is nervous or stressed, but what could he be nervous about tonight?_

“Have I got something on my face?” A sliver of blue shows through his eyelashes. _I hadn't noticed he'd opened his eyes, too focused on those damn lips._ I quickly look away and I can feel myself blushing. 

“No of course not.” His hooded stare weighs down on me in the silence. _I know what I promised and I intend to keep it, but on occasions like tonight keeping my silence is damnably difficult._ “Hungry?” I ask to break the silence. 

“I could eat.” 

“Chinese?” John always likes spicy foods after a case. 

“I was wondering, is Angelo's still open?” 

My gaze flickers to him briefly, something like... expectancy shows on his face. 

“I expect so. It's not that late. Angelo's it is then.” 

When we arrive John asks for the window table. He sits himself with his back towards the street and I sit down on his left. Angelo arrives and, incorrigible as he is, insists on making things 'romantic'. John, strangely enough, doesn't protest. 

Our dinner proceeds quietly, which, while not common after a case, is not unusual either, but the atmosphere feels tense with things left unsaid. Perhaps it is merely in my head, my own longing to speak that makes it appear so. I keep looking out the window, using it as an excuse to study him surreptitiously once more. 

“No cabbies tonight?” John asks. 

“No interesting ones at least.” 

“You mean no murderous ones.” 

“Exactly.” 

“No chance of late night exercise then?” _Was there a soft stress on exercise?_

“Not of the rooftop leaping variety.” For some reason those words make him grin widely. _What did I say?_

John says no more and our meal is finished in silence, John focusing on his plate and I on trying to figure out the reason for his odd behaviour. 

We decide to walk home. Personally I hope the brisk autumn air will clear my head – my brain feels strangely fuzzy, I can't deduce the reasons behind John's altered behaviour. _I know what I hope, but one cannot base deductions on hopes when they are supported by so little data. Too great a risk of twisting the facts to suit the theory._

As we enter the house, go up the stairs and divest ourselves of our coats, John keeps shooting me sideways glances, his eyes darting away whenever I look. 

We linger in the kitchen, John makes tea. _Does he want this evening to end as little as I do?_

As he drinks his tea, I pick up my violin and play. _Various items by Greig, some of John's favourites._ John sits with his eyes closed, looking dreamy, I can see his reflection in the darkened window. 

I keep playing till my fingers hurt, just to keep him in that chair. But in the end he does get up and crosses the room to stand by my side. He puts a hand on my shoulder. 

“Don't you think it's time to go to bed?” 

I sigh imperceptibly as I put down the violin. I look at him, putting on my best smile. 

“Of course. It's getting late, you must be tired. I shan't keep you up any longer. Good night John.” 

I turn, intending to head to my bedroom, but find myself restrained by John's hand gripping my shoulder more firmly. I look back at him, frowning. 

“What?” 

He looks at me exasperated. “You know, I have been trying to get you to kiss me all night.” 

_Ah. So._ “John, you know this isn't my area, and while there were indications that that was what you were trying to achieve the data wasn't quite enough. Besides I made you a promise not to-” My babbling speech is interrupted by John grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me down into what I believe is called a liplock. After long moments, _not nearly long enough_ , he lets go. 

“Sufficient data there?” 

“Yes. Yes. That's quite...” I don't know how to finish that sentence. 

He smiles. “Sometimes you really are spectacularly ignorant.” Not words I like said about me, but considering that another intense kiss follows I decide to let it slide this time. 

Several minutes pass before he lets go once more. He caress my face with one hand as he smiles. 

“This just leaves one last question.” 

I blink. “What?” 

“Your bed, or mine?”


End file.
